The Obscurer

Category: Sport

Thursday 29th November 2007

Strange Kind Of Urgency

So. This morning we’re trying to get my son ready for school, and not unusually it seems to be taking ages; every time his mother or I turn our backs he stops putting on his jumper, or his socks, he stops fastening his shoes, and when we return we instead find him staring at the TV, or looking at a book, or fiddling with the In The Night Garden figures his sister received for her birthday (yes, one year old yesterday; isn’t that a pip!)

Hard to blame him, I suppose; I too would be taking things at my own sweet pace had I a choice, but the fact is that I don’t. The reason that my wife and I are rushing around while he ambles along is that he has no concept of time. While for us a glance at the clock spurs us on there is no such pressure on a child; while for us running late has real potential consequences, a child is unaware of any responsibility. For my son Mummy and Daddy are forever there to sort things out, and he always eventually gets dressed and to school (more or less) on time regardless. As a result, as my son is getting ready, and unlike his parents, he feels no sense of urgency.

No sense of urgency! Now I remember using that phrase recently in a different context, but when was it? Let me think now…mmm…now then… think, think, think…erm…of course! That’s it! I said it umpteen times last week to describe the attitude of the players as England were contriving to throw away that vital football match against Croatia that confirmed I will have to support another nation – probably Spain – in Euro 2008. Then I used the phrase a number of times the following day too, during the post-mortem at work and in the pub.

And now I remember another couple of things, from a few years back; of Razor “Neil” Ruddock describing how baffling real life seemed once his career as a professional footballer was over because the simplest things such as phoning his GP had previously been done for him; how David Beckham once explained that the reason his car’s tax disc was missing was because he expected someone else would have sorted it out. Are these I wonder examples of a sort of arrested development, a delayed adulthood on the part of our professional footballers? Could this extended childhood explain that lack of urgency on display last week, so that even when the spectators in the stands and on their settees where anxiously staring at the clock, our spoiled and pampered representatives on the pitch meandered on regardless, their lives devoid of any real consequence shy of losing a trip abroad next summer, safe as they were in the knowledge that it would be left to others to pay the price or pick up the pieces of their failure to qualify?

And if this “childishness” analogy is an accurate assessment of the evidence we have all witnessed, then I am left to ponder on that other frequently heard excuse for the poor performances of our teams abroad when they so often fail to bring home the spoils; that our footballers play far too many games, that the rigours of our domestic leagues wear out our talented players, and that you can clearly see from the way they play that our lads are simply too tired. Interesting; because as every parent knows when they offer an apology for their child’s behaviour, sometimes when we say “I think s/he’s a little bit tired” we are purely dealing in euphemism.

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Thursday 15th November 2007

Terry’s All Gold

Yesterday Stephen Gerrard joined the fray in calling for some sort of quota system restricting the number of foreign players in the Premier League. What can have influenced his judgment? Could it be the sheer mediocrity of many of the foreigners he has played alongside at Liverpool that has blinded him to the valuable contribution many of the imports have made? Would he, I wonder, be as well disposed towards some sort of quota system should it scupper a future move to AC Milan or Real Madrid, were Italy and Spain to also introduce some measures to “protect” their national teams?

There certainly appears to be a groundswell of opinion growing surrounding the matter of imposing quotas on foreign players in football. This week Michel Platini and Steve Coppell joined Sepp Blatter, Alex Ferguson and others in supporting restrictions on foreigners in the game, mainly on the grounds that it will help the development of indigenous talent. This is bollocks, of course, and the matter shouldn’t need detain us for long. Do we really think that those English players who do break through to Premier League level are anything other than vastly improved by the fact that they play alongside and against superior foreign talent? It seems so blindingly obvious to me, but so it goes. Presumably those calling for quotas are sincere in believing that such moves will remove those foreigners currently blocking out our native talent and so allow more Wayne Rooneys to grace the top flight of the game, but that begs the question “why are the foreign players here in the first place?” I am equally as certain that such moves will just guarantee our teams are cluttered up with more Ben Thatchers and similar and so protect their exalted positions. Certainly, looking back to a time before the influx of foreigners into the game I can’t exactly remember a surplus of homegrown Rooneys; rather my memory is littered with grim visions of a legion of Thatchers, and sub-Thatchers. It seems clear to me that regarding the quality of the players – if not the entertainment – we are much better off these days (and incidentally, my antipathy towards Ben is purely down to his very average performances while playing for my club, and not because of his surname, although that probably didn’t engender my instant respect.)

Perhaps more complex is the whole matter of players’ wages, but there was a similar almost-consensus the other week when, with David Beckham now more or less out of sight and out of mind, John Terry assumed the mantel of being the footballer-most-likely to be used to criticise footballers’ salaries in the Premier League. Sports minister Gerry Sutcliffe apparently “slammed” the “obscene” salary of John Terry and others; although as is often the case when it is reported than someone “slams” something, rather than making an orchestrated attack on the subject Sutcliffe probably just fielded a reasonable question by providing a reasonable answer. What was the response from the very highly paid world of football to the question of whether John Terry and other footballers are too highly paid? Well, Gordon Taylor of the PFA said, “every labourer is worth his hire and Mr Abramovich thinks he’s worth it.” Chelsea boss Avram Grant countered, “everybody likes to speak about the money of the footballers. Why does nobody speak about singers who get more money in one year than any player?” Manchester United’s Alex Ferguson similarly said, “there are some tennis players and golfers earning enormous amounts of money. Is that wrong?” while Arsenal manager Arsene Wenger correctly pointed out that “we are in an economy where the company decides who pays who and how much and we have to respect that.” All is true, but all avoid the question of whether or not football players’ wages are obscene, and the simple answer to that is “yes, of course they are.” Or, if not exactly obscene, then certainly a bit daft.

Personally I have no major objection to the top players earning such daft sums. There is a shed load of money in football at the moment, and when you get a unique talent like a Wayne Rooney being competed for by a number of clubs with pots of cash then there is only one way the price is going to go; that’s just the way it is. I’m actually much less comfortable with journeymen like the aforementioned Ben Thatcher who, while poorer than Rooney, is still mega-rich. Despite having played for many teams, I’ll bet no football fan has ever welcomed Thatcher on arrival at their club, or mourned his passing; his existence in the Premier League is seemingly more down to every team needing 11 players and the league needing 20 teams; and he’s not all that bad you know, I mean I suppose he’ll do. Quite why such a bog standard talent should benefit from being (theoretically) in the same market as someone like Rooney I’m not too sure, but it seems he does. This is something I think is more obscene, if obscene is the right word; Thatcher being quite rich, rather than Rooney or Terry being stupidly rich.

But even regarding top players like John Terry, I do think it is interesting to consider just what forces have led them to their massive income. There is hard work obviously, the drive and ambition to succeed that will have led other similarly gifted or more talented players to fall by the wayside, and that is to be applauded; however hard work is only a part of it. Putting in the same hours as a cricketer, or a chartered surveyor, would result in a far more meagre reward for Terry, no matter how hard he worked; part of the reason for Terry’s wealth is the good fortune that comes from being able in a field that has so much money swirling around it. To that stroke of luck you can add another other stoke of luck, that of Terry having a natural talent for football in the first place; no matter how hard I work at my football I will never be good enough to play anywhere other than my back garden, even the local rec is beyond me. And returning to all that hard work Terry must have put in to get where he is today, even then that “drive and ambition” I mentioned earlier must surely be part nature, part nurture. In summary, then, Terry’s salary is down to being blessed with a natural talent (luck), in a very well rewarded sport (luck) alongside his own efforts (partly luck). Well good luck to him I say.

What to do? Well in the first instance, nothing. I would much prefer for Terry and others to earn the money they do than for there to be some individual salary cap or maximum wage, either in sport or in the wider economy; but this is where taxation comes in, and where for me one of the better cases can be made for a redistributive – or at least a more progressive – tax system. Critics of income redistribution often deride their opponents as envious whingers who moan childishly about redressing society’s “unfairness”; in contrast it is said that taking from the hardworking and giving to the feckless is, well, “unfair”. But as I have said, being hard working is only one of the variables that has led John Terry to his riches, and I don’t think that footballers are a unique case; luck can come in many forms. It is worth saying at this point that I am far from convinced that tax should be used for redistributive purposes, to simply take from the rich to hand to the poor; rather I can see the sense in the rich paying proportionally more in tax than the poor simply because they can more easily afford to, although I concede that in practice they are probably pretty much the same thing.

Have we come all this way just to read a defence of progressive taxation? Well yes, I reckon, it certainly looks that way to me, that and as an excuse for me to make use of the title “Terry’s All Gold”; but sometimes I just feel that the self-evident needs to be evidenced, or something, and we’ve had fun along the way, haven’t we? All I guess I’m trying to say, if I’m even trying to say anything, is that while some people may complain about Premier League salaries, the alternative to footballers – yes, and singers, tennis players, golfers and others – earning vast sums seems to involve unpleasant things like dictatorship and authoritarianism; far better to happily let such people earn their silly money in the first place. But then, rather than bluster that they simply deserve their subsequent wealth, they should accept their good fortune and realise that it’s not unreasonable for them to pay back through taxation a share of what they owe the system that allowed them to earn such absurd amounts of money in the first place. Fair’s fair.

Oh, and as for the matter of quotas for foreigners; footballers – and all other workers while we’re at it – should pretty much be able to work wherever the hell they like; don’t you think?

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Tuesday 6th November 2007

Sland Main

So I’ve voluntarily given up my season ticket for Eastlands, and thanks to our “Frank” Shinawatra I’ve been forced into selling my shareholding in Manchester City; so what should I do with my money instead? Well, watching the half-time adverts while sat in The Queen’s Arms last night, during the piss-awful tedious toss that passed for City’s 1-0 victory over “Roy Keane’s Sunderland”, I was presented with this opportunity.

You could be watching Barclays Premier league in your living room
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At which I sighed, polished-off my second pint of sublime draught Stella that slipped down sweet and cool as you like, then ambled to the bar and ordered one more. Returning to my prime spot, slap-bang in front of the pub’s generous 40”+ plasma screen, I sank back into my seat and briefly pondered the kind offer while savouring my third exquisite pint.

Now just why would I want to go and do a stupid thing like that?

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Thursday 18th October 2007

Fingertails

Language is not a static beast; it constantly evolves, although not in a planned, linear manner. I hope that yesterday the English language made one of its many osmotic advances as, with the score at 1-1 and the ball bounding around inside the England penalty area, Steve Wilson – presumably the only Match Of The Day commentator the BBC could drag to Moscow for an October fixture – declared

England (are) hanging on by their fingertails here.

Quite inspired; announce the winner, inform the OED, bookmark this post and remember the moment for series 42 of Balderdash And Piffle when Dame Victoria Coren explores the etymology of the word. Fingertails; I love it, honest. It’s as if we are somehow going beyond the mere strain and uncertainly of hanging on by our fingertips, like the situation is even more precarious than simply hanging on by our fingernails (which seems positively secure by comparison.) Wonderful. I’m going to try to work the word it into my everyday conversations from now on. Would Steve have possibly put it any better if he had successfully managed to articulate either of the words I assume he was trying to utter? I don’t think so.

Yes indeed, England were hanging on by their fingertails. So it was then in the match, and so it is now with regards remaining in the European Championships beyond the group stage; although just a short while ago the idea that our prospects of progressing were hanging by such a thing would have seemed aspirational when the campaign was going as poorly as I’d predicted and before injuries forced McClaren into fielding a balanced team, so prompting a change in our fortunes. Scotland meanwhile have approached this the other way around by getting off to a cracking start that just refused to peter out, but they have ended up in a similar situation to England after fatefully repeated their classic error of entering a match (in this case against Georgia) as favourites, and with people thinking they stood a good chance. Will they ever learn? We all surely remember where we were when Scotland first proved to us that while they will do well when they don’t stand a chance they will bugger things up with ease once the pressure is off. For myself that epiphany came while I was on holiday at Butlin’s, Pwllheli – watching Archie Gemmill’s goal against the odds that helped put paid to serial World Cup runners-up Holland, but was ultimately in vain as Scotland had forgotten to turn up against Peru the week before – but I know you will be able to name your own time, place and match.

It’s not over yet – England can pray that other results go their way, and Scotland will benefit from being the underdog in their final match against Italy where victory will ensure qualification – but I fear the worst. I have a feeling I could be looking at a European Championships where I will have to adopt another nation to support; that is if I want to have any interest in the competition beyond a sort of detached curiosity. Let’s hope that feeling turns out to be pessimistic. Fingers crossed.

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Monday 23rd April 2007

Social Commentary

On Saturday, Jacqui Oatley broke through the testosterone ceiling in becoming the first female commentator on Match Of The Day. Big deal. It’s amazing, isn’t it, that a woman has managed to cause a stir by doing something unremarkable, something that only convention has prevented another woman from having done before?

Steve Curry of the Daily Mail for one was particularly opposed to the very idea. Speaking on BBC Breakfast he stated he was against the notion of females shrieking their high-pitched excitable tones through the telly, feeling it would detract from the beautiful game. Contrast, I suppose, such pained feminine warbling with the high art of John Motson, Mike Ingham and Alan Green.

Steve Curry is a bit of a tit; anyone who has ever heard him speak would surely agree. But his arguments deserve some consideration; all the more so because they are so easy to pull apart. One argument voiced has been that as no women has played the game at the highest level they are unqualified to comment on Premiership football; an argument that means everyone I know should also keep schtum, as should most TV commentators (Mark Bright meanwhile is someone who has played the game at Premiership level, but demonstrates that such experience is no bar to talking utter claptrap on a regular basis). The idea that women’s voices themselves are unsuitable seems especially odd. Presumably no woman can ever pass muster, while Joe Pasquale is suitable purely because he is a man? Or perhaps we should only source commentators from the RSC? If football commentary was the sole preserve of the likes of Joss Ackland then I could see how the arrival of some squeaky voiced upstart could alter the status quo, but looking at the current cabal of MOTD commentators I can’t see how a woman would alter the balance that much.

In the event I thought Jacqui acquitted herself just fine while commentating on the Fulham / Blackburn game; afterwards Gary Lineker pondered that their female commentator had done a good job, to which Lee Dixon gave a resounding “yeah” and then swiftly moved on to discuss the match itself. It was the correct, dismissive response; not to the idea that a woman can commentate competently, but to the fact that it is an issue in the first place. And amongst other things, the reason it isn’t an issue is because in essence football itself is fucked so it really doesn’t matter. To the vast majority of football fans MOTD and the rest are just playing out time. There is a very real chance as I write this that the Premiership, FA Cup and European Cup will be fought out between two teams that everyone hates; it is a tribute to Chelsea that we are now in the situation where even I as a Man City fan can’t really choose between them and United. Whatever the talk of this being a golden era for English club football I’m praying for an AC Milan victory in the Champions League as the only respite we may get from the success of these two unlovable clubs (I’m not sure where Liverpool fit into all this, but I must confess I’m not a fan of theirs either).Football has become so boring these days that whoever commentates on the game is irrelevant.

But anyway, just what is this sacred order of commentators that women are in danger of breaking into? Okay, Sky’s commentators are alright in the main, but have you listened to the rabble on the BBC and ITV recently? Apart from the humble old guard of the likes of Tony Gubba and Mike Ingham who just get on with it and can still do a half decent job, we have some ne’er do wells such as John Motson, Clive Tydesley and Alan Green, and then the young(er) ones like Peter Drury, Jonathan Pearce and Guy Mowbray who think their job is to come up with some ever more painful, smart-alec wordplay for every ill-suited occasion, so showing themselves up each time as smug, preening fuckwits. Is anyone telling me that no woman can improve on that shower of arses?

Women have many faults. None of them can read a map without turning it around up to 270 degrees so that it is in line with the way they are facing, and they seem incapable of successfully parallel parking unless they fully employ all the laws of chance. But were you to ask me; are we saying that a female cannot commentate every bit as poorly as a juggins* such as Jon Champion? Well, then I must insist that they can. From my experience I fiercely believe that a woman can be just as inept as any man out there.

*Juggins n. inf. silly fellow. A great word I discovered while looking in the dictionary for a “J” my son could take into nursery for the “letter of the week” (in the end we settled on a carton of apple “juice”).

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